Unmerry

In 1968 I followed my math Ph.D. thesis advisor Karl Stromberg to Kansas State University from the University of Oregon in Eugene to complete my studies.  Professor Stromberg decided to visit Eugene over Christmas break.  His new wife couldn’t drive and he was legally blind.  He asked me to do the driving.

We followed blizzards for 1,740 miles to Oregon.  The first day the snow was so deep that I lost the road and drove into a snow bank.  We were towed into the nearest town by a road grader, but we could only get one room there.  The couple took one bed and I slept with the wife’s two young children, one of whom wet the bed.  As bad as that was, I would have preferred to stay where I was to getting back on the road, but we went on through the perilous weather.  The other excitement on the trip was losing traction on a street in Baker in Eastern Oregon.  We were fortunate that the car slid down a vacant street hitting nothing, rather than running into pedestrians or a building.  No harm done, just horror.

We got to Eugene and then I took a bus to Portland where my father picked me up from a pay telephone booth (they were common then).  When I checked in with the woman that I had been dating while in Oregon, she was distant and cold.  I got the hint.  There hadn’t been any passion in the relationship and I wasn’t very disappointed, despite a desire to see her again.  My sister who had introduced us suggested she was interested in marriage, which didn’t interest me.

After that there was a low key Christmas with my mid-fifties year old parents.  Of that and the trip back, I remember little.  There was no drama, pain, or joy.

Epilogue – I got my Ph.D at the end of that school year back in Eugene.  I never heard from the girlfriend again.  I got married the next year while teaching at Morehouse College in Atlanta and remain married to the same person who among other things is my live in editor.  Professor Stromberg’s wife left him and he got a mail order wife I am told.  He has died; I don’t know anything about either of those wives – there had been some before those two.

Why the Afro-Caribbean Diaspora Celebrate Carnival

By Jacques Fleury

As a young boy growing up partly on the francophone island of St. Domingue or Haiti as we know it today, few things gave me more pleasure than seeing random festivities making a raucous in my neighborhood.  I would later learn that they are colloquially referred to as “raras.”  Rara is defined as a festive Haitian musical category, religious ritual, dance, and sometimes a system of political dissent that originated in Haiti.

I remember running to my mother and saying in French : “Maman, il y a un tas de gens qui jouent de la musique et font des bruits joyeux dans les rues ! Et d’autres personnes les rejoignent en chemin ! On dirait qu’ils s’amusent ! Pouvons-nous les rejoindre aussi ? ’’ Which translates in English to: “Mom, there are a bunch of people playing music and making happy noises in the streets! And other people are joining them along the way! Looks like they’re having fun! Can we join them too? “

I never asked “why?” I just felt the joy in the deep part of my youthful soul, replete with then a plethora of auxiliary wonderment. It was the few times that the border between adults and children blended and we all became simply humans just being. It never occurred to me that there was a reason why the historical legacies of these prima facie “happy” islanders were rooted in pain, which they would then deliberately mitigate by suffusing their hearts with joy rather than congregate to commiserate in an amalgamation of anger over egregious hurts from their historical past.

This is the island I remember as a child. Running naked with my cousins in the rain, playing hide & seek during blackouts and flying kites under the perpetual summer sun and of course CARNIVALS: an equally festive but much bigger version of “raras.” A colossal event that encompasses floats of popular bands replete with polemic reciprocal banter all in good fun, lavish costumes and a time when they forget about dictators, and the politics of malicious foreign policies and governmental undermining of bigger more powerful countries that seemingly condemns them to a state of perpetual hardship and political unrest.

It wasn’t until I came to America on a student visa that I learned about America’s relationship with Haiti, which was and still is not so good. As I watched the American news media portray the Haitian people as sorrowful, pitiful peasants who “need” to be “rescued”, an ideology that conceivably corroborates “the white savior complex.” Even after over one hundred years of genetic research from top universities like Harvard have traced the VERY first human civilization back to the deserts of  sub-Saharan Africa from which all other civilizations evolved 50,000 years ago! According to generative artificial intelligence, this is defined as:  a mentality where a white person supposes they need to rescue or “save” people of color, often by belittling or meddling in their lives, while concurrently denying agency and authority to those they claim to help; fundamentally portraying themselves as the generous force needed to uplift demoted communities, which is often seen as a detrimental typecast and a form of racial despotism. 

Key points about the “white savior complex”:

• Patronizing attitude:

A white person with this complex may view people of color as incapable of solving their own problems and needing white intervention. 

• Performative actions:

Their actions might be more about self-image and gaining praise than genuinely helping the communities they target. 

• Ignoring systemic issues:

This complex often fails to address the root causes of inequalities, focusing instead on individual acts of charity that may not create lasting change. 

Examples of white savior complex behavior:

• A white person starting a charity in a developing country without consulting local leaders about their actual needs. 
• A white individual taking credit for the achievements of people of color they are “helping”. 
• A fictional narrative where a white character is the only one who can solve a problem faced by a community of color. 

Why is the “white savior complex” problematic?

• Perpetuates stereotypes:

It reinforces the notion that people of color are helpless and need white people to save them. 

• Disregards agency:

It denies people of color the ability to advocate for themselves and solve their own issues. 

• Centering whiteness:

It puts the focus on the white person’s actions and motivations, rather than the needs of the marginalized community. 

When it comes to Haiti and other predominantly “black” nations, the scenarios above are what I’ve come to know as an adult through the American media and personal interactions with fellow Americans across all racial and cultural backgrounds. What America fails to tell the world is that despite Haiti’s people being enslaved and brutalized for over a hundred years by the French, Haiti managed to single handedly secure its freedom by becoming the FIRST BLACK REPUBLIC in history in 1804 after the pivotal Battle of Vertieres. From the authority of generative AI:

The Battle of Vertières was the final major battle of the Haitian Revolution and the establishment of Haiti as the world’s first independent Black republic: 

• When and where

The battle took place on November 18, 1803, near Cap-Haitien in northern Haiti 

• Who fought

The Haitian army led by General Jean-Jacques Dessalines fought against Napoleon’s French expeditionary forces led by General Rochambeau 

• What happened

The Haitian army stormed the French-held Fort Vertières and eventually defeated the French troops 

• Significance

The battle was a critical blow to Napoleon, forcing him to focus on building an empire in Europe. It was also the first time an army of enslaved people led a successful revolution for their freedom. 

• Monument

A monument was constructed on the site of the battle in 1953

And it was money from the then richest island in the Americas that France used to supplement the American Revolution against the British, in the late 1700s, Haitians came to fight off the Brits in Savannah, Georgia for which they are memorialized in a colossal monument erected in 2000 (better late than never, eh?). Not to mention that it was a Haitian American trader by the name of Jean Baptiste Point du Sable who is regarded as the primary permanent non-Native colonizer of what we now know as Chicago, Illinois, and is documented as the city’s founder.

Despite all these accomplishments, Haiti is still being portrayed in the media as pitiful underachievers who need to be “rescued” by the self-proclaimed superior powers that be.

So why does the African diaspora celebrate by throwing lavish “fetes” or “parties” in the form of Carnivals? As an adult, I had to research and educate myself about “my story”, no thanks to my American “His-story” classes of yore. The carnivals represent a joyous middle finger to their oppressors, much like when during the tempestuous epochs of the civil rights movement, black people used to sing negro spirituals as they were being arrested to reclaim their individual power, joy and dignity.  The idea of “the carnival” was conceived to celebrate the liberation of the Afro-Caribbean Diaspora from slavery…something I didn’t know when I was child in Haiti.

It is a reclamation of the Afro-Caribbean power as a people, to tell their OWN story. I once read that until the lions possess their own historians, the history of the hunt will always extol the hunter. Hence the carnivals represent the formation of the hunted “lions’ historians” and they are “glorifying” themselves by telling their OWN stories through song, dance, fabulous customs and costumes!

Dedicated to my brother, Dr. Guy Claude Fleury for his inspiration and advocacy for Afro-Caribbean culture.

Jacques Fleury is a Boston Globe featured Haitian-American Poet, Educator, Author of four books and literary arts student at Harvard University online. His latest publication “You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self”   & other titles are available at all Boston Public Libraries, the University of Massachusetts Healey Library, University of  Wyoming, Askews and Holts Library Services in the United Kingdom, The Harvard Book Store, The Grolier Poetry Bookshop, amazon etc…  He has been published in prestigious  publications such as Muddy River Poetry Review, the Cornell University Press anthology Class Lives: Stories from Our Economic Divide, Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene among others…Visit him at:  http://www.authorsden.com/jacquesfleury.

The Armor Of God

The sculptor of my soul, the shaper of dreams,

The lighthouse guides me through life’s raging streams.

The lifeline of love, a man built to inspire,

His hope fuels my growth, his words light my fire.

A leader of strength, my champion, my guide,

A shoulder of dreams where ambitions reside.

His bald crown, a playground for childhood delight,

His scolding, my spark, my source of bright light.

The hero of heroes, my pride,

A warrior protecting, with love as his guide.

F: A Fighter, shielding through life’s every storm,

A: An Armor of God, steadfast and warm.

T: A Trailblazer, charting the map of success,

H: A Helper, who stands in each moment of stress.

E: An Enthusiast, spreading joy without end,

R: The Realist, who mends where we bend.

Father, The savior.

Like a tree rooted deep, reaching high to the skies,

He holds us together, where our happiness lies.

A protector, a fighter, a beacon of grace,

In his shadow, I grow, in his love, I embrace.

Pay it Forward

One Christmas Eve, many years ago, I sat on the pavement, outside my pharmacy, having gotten my meds and now waiting for the door-to-door transit bus, which ferried disabled folks about town. I didn’t think much about it at the time, but in my old Carhart jacket and tattered jeans, I must have presented something of a spectacle to others who were going in and out of the building. As I sat there idly observing other people, I noticed that many of them averted their eyes in passing. I figuratively shrugged.

At one point, a middle aged woman approached bearing a  twenty dollar bill and implored me to take it. I tried to refuse it, telling her that I was not a begger, but merely waiting for my bus — I was sitting on the pavement because my legs weren’t strong enough to support me for long periods of time. But, she insisted, telling me simply, “Merry Christmas.” Not wanting to hurt her feelings, I reluctantly accepted her gesture of kindness.

Ten minutes later, still awaiting my ride, I spied a pretty young woman with two little children. She approached a well-dressed man emerging from the pharmacy and briefly spoke to him. I saw him shake his head no and continue on his way. She stood there, forlorn, and I struggled to my feet and approached her.

“Can I help you, miss,” I asked her.

Taking in my disheveled appearance, she shook her head and said, “No, I don’t want to trouble you.”

I thought: she  thinks I’m a panhandler too. I smiled as kindly and as unthreateningly at her as I could and merely handed her the twenty. She was stunned. Then she narrowed her eyes at me a little suspiciously for a moment, but finding in my face only kindness, she accepted the bill and hugged my in gratitude. In my mind I imagined the predators who might have tried to coerce her.

“Merry Christmas,” I murmured, but she was already half way across the parking lot with her children, en route to McDonalds.

New Money Talking

a parvenu offer discharging

other beveled rhythm clatter

created the natal glassware

negative distention shared

slowly with caravan garnish

a vernacular surfeit ravenous

when placebo clutter scented

all vinyl camels sentenced 

to motivation from bonfire

moons harvest night visions

baring simple reverberation 

mixed donation count slowing

the explanation always current

alkali confessionals assimilate

slowly crumbling nonchalance 

nouns confused beyond focus

boxed the intended explanation

their asymmetrical rout buttons

left the blot workers hot hands

gripping for work when shading

though a new belief metropolis

tried as nominal monorail dreams

asphalt moving where plumage

displaces pinnacle precursors

sweatband mavens manipulate

sandbar dissertation swamping

catapult mustard blown ashore

cranks threatened clatter thirst

where shore’s old money fails

recumbent vengeance battered

blossom soundtrack bromide

while chopstick hipsters loaded 

before fetal setters waddled

partnership plumage protruding

acoustic manacle swamping

subterranean passengers worm

behind a retro simulacrum pit

repository staterooms gamble

old management vendettas

trace a subliminal condition

called nom more than noum 

and crowing transparencies

go postal for envelope return 

or warrant rampage visions

the intricate endeavor served

over fresh apocalypse lotion 

gives notions pixellated rancor 

King Leering

1.

reptilian camphor

never a slither too soon 

     adorned &

adrift in scrotal motoring

     epilogue in fourth pursuit

     culpable as a faded legion

     grown foreign to its tongue

no matter the sliced enticement

     a filter guord

     sharing tooth bleeds

     a bellied circus

cordially monochromatic

     and always available

                  in shortened outbursts

2.

writhing mayhem

occlusion spoils the winning 

     whose circuits

shorten the soiled spread

         caught 

         in a tandem remake

         unclogged 

                          its calling core 

a new suit (gray) covers the slay fang

     implant

     the chronic rotary ogle

     replayed

                   a grip-firmed gin

         attuned to automatic

             outbursts parlayed cast

                  nuance to dating figurines

3.

turning left-

handed on the condo circuit

                  a rebel 

                  without a paw

     no star north

     on the Hollywood walk

to warm 

             the break

                            of a lizard chill

just flip on the zeitgeist filter

     ecalate downward

          an eye on ascending

               the scent of his ointment

Sometimes it Takes a Weatherman

roadhouse winds seem leftward 

prefixes to convenient pursuit 

of roadblock carnage bellow out-

play setbacks that failed to stray 

from a victor’s convenient minibus

motoring a firestorm transit rumor

alongside visor launches designated 

to pillory schemata recipients 

formation grows vexation turf

wavering against the sciatica blister 

employers left to forage custard or silt

stock dilemmas in the fetid marsh

no predators attended the bramble 

an armpit thrust lowered bandanas

red animation compounded assent 

backbone boost informally intoned

no caliper adversaries compounded

another tangible venom change

left a salvage phone dispatch filter 

ventilated natal fortification glory

the phrenolology firestorm forecast 

their linear organ liter landmark trails

fair comparison to a roman jockstrap

lunchtime exorcism belch emerging 

nice caricature to bump upon a bias

the lemur media already receives 

empty support from intrepid reflectors 

where roadhouse monuments dazzle 

filler but diminished drizzle glazed

the vagabond camouflage too relic

dooms its own discursive slipping

duffers hail a coastal mausoleum

tabloids blow messenger predilections

past the looming preconception 

syncophantic retrofit pulsations glimmer

ghost implosions when darkened

bolero dining to a sepulchral medley

Long Motel Stayed

larvae pudding 

low tipper cleats turn out 

the other thrust

whisper texture

fades on feel from heating

motive a venom waylaid

as linear guffaw exports

a raw blockade enclave

daydreams

boast hourglass staterooms

immediate 

pallor stains the worn brain 

dispensing

sedentary replication

to delay any pocketbook guest

sidecar candelabera boast

a vaunted misanthrope rotisserie

stroking visible pork shading

dazed veins

turning patio temper vacant

First of all, contributor Jeff Rasley invites people to consider this opportunity to further education in Basa Village, where he has spent much time.

From Jeff: The people of Basa Village, Nepal, have requested our Foundation’s help with two projects commencing in 2025. Funds are needed to help pay the salaries of three of the village school’s teachers. If private funding is not provided, the school’s English, Science, and Social Studies & Computer Literacy teachers will have to work for no pay or resign. Because the village’s family farms are all subsistence farms, many of the 85 elementary school students will eventually leave Basa. Acquiring education that will help to make the village’s youth employable in a city may be vital to their future. The Foundation is seeking contributions to fund those three teachers’ salaries for one year.

The second project is the development of a commercially viable herd of goats and pigs. The villagers are dependent on subsistence farming and money earned by some of the adults working in the tourist industry as support staff for treks and mountaineering expeditions. Disastrous earthquakes in 2015 and the 2020 COVID pandemic virtually shut down tourism for two years following each of those catastrophes. The village leaders realized that a sustainable business is needed to support village families, when jobs in tourism are not available. The first animals were purchased this year, but to make the endeavor profitable, more animals must be purchased and cared for. The goal is to have a profitable co-op business of selling goat milk, cheese, and yoghurt and pork within two years after the requisite number of animals are acquired. Money earned above costs will support the village school and provide assistance to any families in need.

Please consider contributing to our fundraiser for the school and farm projects via our website at https://www.bvfusa.org/donate

Or, send a check to our corporate treasurer David Culp 2322 E. 66th St. Indianapolis, IN 46220. Let me know if you have any questions about the projects or the BVF. The Basa Village Foundation USA, Inc. is a 501(C)(3) organization, and financial contributions to it are charitable donations, per the US Internal Revenue Code.

Now, for this month’s first issue: Who Will We Become?

John Edward Culp personifies the human journey through life as a child learning to walk under a giant sky. On the other hand, Ilhomova Mohichehra’s work honors the beauty and longevity of a tree.

Sayani Mukherjee communes with the hidden longings and feelings layered within a landscape as Rubina Anis melds colors into gentle natural scenes. Christina Chin and Jerome Berglund’s collaborative tan-renga highlight vignettes and observations of humans co-existing with nature. Raquel Barbeito’s art zooms in on pieces of nature – flowers, spiders, a skull – in black and white. O’tkir Mulikboyev wishes to become part of his natural environment and bring nutriments to those around him.

Alan Catlin presents human and animal wildness in its feral glory: hunger, fear, crashing ocean spray, animal eyes in the dark, earthworm trails. Sidnei Rosa da Silva’s prose poetry depicts the lonely calm of a northern winter. Christina Chin and Kimberly Olmtak’s collaborative tan-renga becomes more personal and domestic, presenting cozy tea and houseplants.

Duane Vorhees furthers his poetic exploration of sensuality, fecundity, and history. Brooks Lindberg’s poem probes the linkages between older mysticism and newer beliefs given our understanding of physics.

Isabel Gomez de Diego’s photography positions youth and new life as a continuation of the world’s cultural and natural history. Kylian Cubilla Gomez captures the off-center wonder and mystery of childhood through his photographic close-ups of toys.

Mashhura Ahmadjonova sends in a piece on how quickly life passes and Akmalova Zebokhan Akobirkhan reflects on the steady stream of life, one day after another, as Rashidova Shahrizoda Zarshidovna urges us to live with intent and purpose.

Jacques Fleury’s pieces address awakening, surprise, and discovery. JoyAnne O’Donnell celebrates the manifold ways ordinary people can find joy in our everyday lives, including love and close relationships. Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa conveys the deep joy of intimacy, friendship, and love. Mesfakus Salahin evokes quiet moments of peace brought by a tender love. Sara Goyceli Serifova wishes to live a long time with her beloved partner, as her grandmother did.

Z.I. Mahmud examines the characters’ journeys out of self-absorption toward empathy and wonder in Antoine Saint-Exupery’s The Little Prince.

Layla Adhamova suggests that happiness is accessible to many people, not just the wealthy. Gullola Nuriddinova laments the betrayal of a lover who chose money over their beloved. Bill Tope’s short story illustrates a youthful form of justice against family favoritism and classism around the holidays.

Brian Barbeito conveys the wisdom of age in his piece on a friendship between a young boy and a kind elderly neighbor.

Haitmurodov Ismoil reflects on how a father’s love can sustain you throughout life. Azimbayeva Dilrabo gives a tribute to a caring father who passed away, Iroda Sherzod offers up a tribute to her caring and selfless father, and Rahmiddinova Mushtariy pays tribute to her father’s wisdom. Olimjonova Muslima pays tribute to her parents’ continued support all along her academic and personal journey.

Sobirjonova Rayhona shares tributes to beloved teachers here, here, and here. Shahnoza Ochildiyeva’s story illustrates how a teacher brought about justice in the classroom without shaming anyone. Shoxijaxon Urunov’s essay highlights how teachers accomplish so much more than imparting information.

Dilbar Koldoshova Nuraliyevna reflects on the difficulties and hard work of the creative life and her determination to pursue that path, as Kass probes the solitary inner drives of a literary artist.

Rick Reut tinkers with the arrangement of words in concrete poetry exploring time, memory, and language. Vernon Frazer’s words pop out of juxtaposed shapes and images while Mark Young serves up a heady word-marinade. Maftuna Yusufboyeva looks into a different way of using language, examining the role, goals, and purposes of advertising. Texas Fontanella links ideas and words and bursts of thought together in his Pound-inspired modern canto.

Federico Wardal spotlights the elegance and cultural history of Andrea Ceccomori’s San Francisco flute performances. David Sapp illuminates a moment of rapturous ecstasy in the view of sublime art. Dr. Jernail S. Anand’s poetry reminds us that the truth about history and humanity is often difficult to stomach and that art helps us process our knowledge. Thus, the literary arts are a worthy calling, despite the lack of remuneration.

Farangiz Abduvohidova analyzes the ancient Greek influence on some words in the Uzbek language. Muslima Murodova contributes a patriotic piece about Uzbekistan as Ismailov Shukurillo offers a paean to his Uzbek heritage and Jasmina Makhmasalayeva conveys her pride and joy in her Uzbek homeland.

Norova Zulfizar outlines various historical sites in Uzbekistan while Rustambekova Nozimakhon sketches life in her neighborhood, showing her pride in her community. Khalida Nuray’s poem urges people of Turkish ancestry to rise up and defend and protect their homeland and culture.

S.C. Flynn’s poetry illustrates the tragedies of incomplete journeys and transformations: beautiful thoughts, creatures, and relationships that never develop into what they are meant to be.

Taylor Dibbert’s poem reflects the quiet anxiety many Americans felt over the 2024 presidential election. In a similar vein, Daniel De Culla satirizes Donald Trump’s values and personality through poetry and a photo. Pat Doyne bitterly calls out the United States’ less welcoming attitudes towards immigrants. John Ebute poetically seeks signs of life in his native and troubled Nigeria. Abigail George mourns the loss of life and the obfuscations of international politics in her poems on the war in Gaza. Alexander Kabishev ends his saga of the trauma of living in St. Petersburg under siege. David Woodward reflects on broken American political systems with concrete poetry using absurdist forms.

In a more general vein, Anvarova Nilufar laments the harsh state of the world and human nature. Goyibnazarov Abdulla reminds us how people often overestimate their abilities and knowledge.

Mykyta Ryzhykh’s undercapitalized works evoke the barren, alienated landscape of modern life. J.J. Campbell offers up a bah-humbug to the festive season, showing overworked cashiers, commercialism, pain, racism, and loneliness behind the holiday mood. Jim Meirose sends up a quirky tale for the season of online electronics shopping.

Tempest Miller explores memory, trauma, and the absurdity of existence through his pieces on zebras, crocodiles, industry, and nature. Jake Cosmos Aller revels in the surreal wild spirit of a crazy night of passion and booze. Paul Costa uses the language of Western-style adventures to highlight struggles within and among people.

Ilhomova Mohichehra reflects on human vulnerability and on gratitude for her health. Graciela Noemi Villaverde reflects poetically on the loss of a great love. Mahbub Alam also mourns an absence that has become visceral and inescapable. Philip Butera’s poetry explores personal and relational grief, loneliness, and the desire to escape from oneself. Christopher Bernard expresses similar sentiments in his poetic tribute to writer Marvin R. Hiemstra and other deceased writers, which focuses less on than on the individuals who passed and more on the implacability and universality of death.

Christina Chin presents a third round of collaborative tan-renga, this time with M.R. Defibaugh. Its protagonists bring a quiet determination to face unexpected twists of fate.

Maja Milojkovic presents a glorious vision for the world, where everyone enjoys peace, freedom, and mutual respect. We hope that this publication brings Earth a step closer to that goal. Please enjoy the issue!

WE EXIST IN LIFE

Let the blood in our bodies be green,

Let this space turn green.

If I merge into the roots,

No bird can be without a place.

If I become the eyes of the springs,

I would flow clear and healing.

I would take the pain of the sick,

I would bring joy to the heart.

Then I would grow as a plant,

Evil would not spill ink.

Good feelings would surround the world,

Knowing, it would not sin.

If I become the most precious ore,

I would pour out for them to pick up.

The one who eliminates the feeling of hunger,

I would awaken the feeling of gratitude by melting.

If I fly like a bird with wings,

I would lead towards dreams.

Striving is the foundation of faith,

I would throw away sorrow in my flight.

The sea would be full of waves,

If I become a snowy mountain.

I would roll all the noises,

If I become a river in the streams.

If I become a word, I would ring,

The song of peace, every breath.

The world would be wide without wars,

The desire born to want happiness.

Everyone has feelings, embodied,

We exist in the name of human.

If everyone follows goodness,

We are pure beings like springs.

Let the blood in our bodies be green,

Let this space turn green.

O’tkir Mulikboyev is a teacher at School No. 75, Qoshrabot District, Samarkand Region, Uzbekistan.